


Drown Out the Din

by orbiting_saturn



Series: Drown Out the Din [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage and Discipline, Dominance, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam realizes the depth of his sins, he craves punishment. Castiel needs Sam ready for the fight ahead and finds his best course of action is to give the broken hunter what he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown Out the Din

_  
**There's a drumming noise inside my head  
That throws me to the ground  
I swear that you should hear it  
It makes such an almighty sound**   
_

**Drumming- Florence & the Machine**

Something goes wrong in him every time the angel shows up. It's very nearly the same as the rush he feels when the demon blood touches his lips, but different. So different. It's like the taint in his blood is running from the angelic presence in the room, flowing backwards through his veins, like it's changed its course. His heart thuds a staccato rhythm.

There's a thudding in his ears, a low reverberation in his head. It pulses behind his eyes and wavers his vision and everything swims until he must squeeze his lids.

It hurts in a way that he has no reference for. More than the twist of shame he felt in his gut every time he sank himself into Ruby's tight heat.

The angel rarely spares him a glance, his intense gaze usually so full of Dean, like he's the only thing in the world. But the harsh thump, thump, thump of his heart drowns out all words, the sounds are the words, the only ones he knows in those moments when he thinks he's been forgotten by the others. And he can feel it in his blood, the tight recoiling, like a small animal hiding from a predator, curling itself up. He worries about clotting and lowers his head, lets his hair fall over his eyes and tries to make himself smaller.

Something goes right in him when the angel drags his eyes away from Dean and fixes them on him instead. Those eyes, those fathomless eyes narrow just a shade, that head tilts and Sam knows that he knows. If he weren't already sitting, he would've staggered and fallen to his knees. He turns his face away, cheeks blazing warm from the pounding, thudding rush of blood and prays that Dean doesn't notice.

 _  
**Give me the words you said you liked  
You're gonna want it all  
Are you a violent man?  
Are we the lovers in July?  
And then the lightning comes  
Oh, and it don't come back  
You're gonna want it all back"**   
_

**Murderer- Wintersleep**

The hotel rooms are constrictive, dark cages. Everything about them is ugly to him, from the loud wallpaper to the dust motes and the whisper of a hundred human memories. This one has housed many, some souls just craving rest or shelter, others a sanctuary and many more a place to fornicate. It reeks of pain and fear and lust. And death, because three humans have taken their lives in this room. He hates it.

He has just said something to anger Dean, but he isn't sure what. The hunter has grabbed the keys to his vehicle and stormed out of the room. He is always saying things to anger Dean, but he isn't sure why. He is only ever honest. It must be that the human would rather he tell pretty little lies. Humans are so fond of their lies. There is no reason that he should, but he thinks it might be easier to give them their desired untruths. But no. If he must suffer these ugly little places then Dean must suffer the truth.

A fresh scent of fear drifts lazily against his grace, dragging him from his ruminations. He casts a glance in the direction it comes from and finds Sam Winchester still sitting at the table, the glow of his computer monitor casting his angular profile in a harsh unnatural glow.

He considers leaving now, perhaps to the tip of Mount Kailash. But then that sense of fear and longing coming from the younger Winchester assaults him again. A thready beat of pulsing blood sounds like a drum through the human that is trying desperately to avoid eye contact.

"I won't hurt you," he tells Sam. The fear in Sam is not new. But there is something here that was not before Lucifer's rising. He has trouble naming the jumble of emotions pressing at the edges of Sam's soul. He looks closer and sees that black swirl of taint has wrapped itself all around Sam's soul, squeezing it tightly, like it might be trying to strangle out all purity.

"I know," Sam answers after several long moments. He sounds disappointed.

"I cannot offer you absolution," he says, guessing where that disappointment comes from.

The demon taint squeezes Sam's soul tighter and he looks up, his long hair falling away from his narrowed eyes. "Of course you can't," Sam snaps. "There's no absolution for either of us."

He cannot pretend to be unaware of Sam's intent with that statement, knows he is referring to his rebellion against Heaven. And he finds himself swelling with anger, anger that this man, this tainted abomination would presume to remind him of his follies. This creature is so much less than him, less and more than most mortals and should not have the audacity to speak to him in such a way.

His wings have unfurled and stretched under the pressure of his ire, flapping enough to send a whirl of wind through the enclosed space of the room. It lifts the hairs across Sam Winchester's forehead, forces him to blink against the torrent. The artificial light of the lamp flickers once, twice, three times before the bulb explodes. His grace is expanding, pressing against the confines of his vessel.

With a slight flick of his wings, he crosses the room. In a movement too quick for the human to map, he has him pressed against the wall. The knuckles of his vessel's fists are white from their grip on Sam's shirt, the material pulled tight across broad shoulders and chest.

He can feel the slight catch of stubble against his lips as he speaks against that titled chin. "I may be less than what I was, Sam Winchester, but it would be foolish of you to draw comparisons between the two of us."

Another gust from his agitated wings slaps against them both, he can feel his coat flapping against his legs. Every muscle in the hunter's body is tensed, but he tilts his head down and stares back. There is no defiance in his gaze, only a warm acceptance. "What do they do to murderers in Hell, Castiel?"

He is unprepared for the question, his grip tightens further and he feels the bite of Sam's collar bone against his knuckles. A gasp and then a sigh comes from the man and his head sinks lower, so close that their foreheads nearly touch. Long hair tickles the cheeks of his vessel's face and he now understands why physical nearness unsettles humans as it does.

"The tortures that await murderers are too intense for you to conceive," is his answer.

"Show me."

Surprise and horror breaks his hold and Sam crumples to his knees before him. Large hands reach up and drag in the material of his coat, gripping tight and desperate. He can see that ugly demon taint unfurling itself, swimming through the golden flare of Sam Winchester's sad and sorry soul. "Please, Castiel. Show me."

With a thought, he is away from the room, from the desperate man clawing at him. When he lands, he sways and his vessel's knees almost give beneath him. A cold Tibetan wind roils around him and he finds himself making a strangely human gesture when his palm drags over his face.

 _  
**Little angel go away  
Come again some other day  
The devil has my ear today  
I'll never hear a word you say  
Promised I would find a little solace  
And some peace of mind  
Whatever, just as long as I don't feel so  
Desperate and ravenous  
So weak and powerless over you**   
_

**Weak and Powerless- A Perfect Circle**

He jolts awake from his dream, sweat-damp t-shirt clinging to his chest. His heart hammers alarmingly fast and he almost prays that he's going into cardiac arrest. Not that it will do him any good at this point, it's been made clear that not even death is a viable escape option. Each ragged breath dragged past his lips burns his dry throat, so dry that he knows he must have been panting even as he dreamed.

It makes little sense that a dream could leave behind that residual scent and taste of ozone, that hint of the angelic. It still hangs in the air, clings to Sam's damp skin and coats his tongue. Everything about the dream had seemed startlingly real, the warmth of Jess' skin beneath his hands, the flowery scent of her hair that had morphed perversely when Lucifer changed forms.

He tries to swallow it down with his gasping breath, but there is no moisture in his mouth to wash it down. Throwing the covers aside, he stumbles over to the mini-fridge and falls to his knees before it, yanks open the door so forcefully that he nearly pulls the flimsy thing from the wall. There's only one bottle of cold water remaining and that panics him because he thinks he may need buckets to wash this taste from his mouth.

The cold water washes over his pasty tongue, cool and refreshing and pure in his throat. It's gone far too soon and the plastic of the bottle crinkles in his too-tight grip when he pushes himself to his wobbly legs. As he moves to the bathroom, he tugs off his drenched t-shirt, lets it fall negligently to the floor.

When he enters the dark bathroom, he chooses not to flip on the light, unable to face his reflection just yet. Instead he feels around in the blackness, focuses on the feel of the cool linoleum beneath his bare feet. He turns the cold water spigot and the sound blasts and echoes in the darkness, nearly drowning out the beats of his slowing pulse. Cupping his hands beneath the rush of water, first he splashes his hot face, then sucks in a few mouthfuls of the tangy tap water and he likes it better than the filtered stuff from before because the minerals nearly mask that clinging taste of his dream.

A few more handfuls of water are splashed over his face, neck and chest. Perhaps a shower would be more efficient, but he doesn't think he has the energy to stand for as long as that would take. His breathing has calmed, his heart-rate slowed and he thinks that his whore's bath was sufficient to clear his muddle thoughts somewhat.

As soon as he turns the water off, he hears the chiming sound of his cell phone. He rushes back into the room, both hoping and dreading that it will be Dean. Glancing at the illuminated screen when he snatches the phone up, he feels more relief than disappointment when he sees that it is an unfamiliar number. He flips it open anyway, grateful for any kind of distraction the caller may give him.

"Hello?" And his voice might be a touch shaky, but not nearly as bad as he anticipated.

"Tell me where you are."

The angel's command makes his stomach flip, all that water he sucked down swishes uncomfortably in his sternum and he swallows back the urge to regurgitate. He barely considers the idea of arguing before he answers.

"Great Plains Motel in Arbor, Oklahoma. Room 214."

A fluttering sound at his back alerts him to the fact that he is no longer alone and every single muscle in his body tenses. He takes longer than he should to turn, unprepared to face anyone, let alone the angel whose fathomless gaze unmasks him and sees every flaw and fault and inadequacy.

He doesn't realize that he was still holding his phone to his ear until the other line disconnects. There's an accompanying click behind him of a cell phone snapping shut.

His throat is suddenly painfully dry again. When he speaks, his voice is scratchy and brusque. "What do you want?"

He's met with silence for far longer than he would like. He can still feel the presence behind him, it hangs in the air like a heavy blanket, but there's not a single sound apart from his own soft breathing.

"Turn around and look at me," that rumbling voice demands. It brooks no room for argument, it's as unapologetic as it should be. And he finds himself complying unquestioningly.

The angel is standing closer than he realized, the red tinge of neon that filters though the curtains casts one side of his implacable face in an eerie light. All of those sharp angles that he stole from Jimmy Novak are tight and firm, mapping lines of jaw and cheekbone in shadow. He moves closer, killing the safety of distance with each lithe footstep and Sam has the irrational sense of being stalked.

When the angel stops, he's standing so close to Sam that he must tilt his head back to gaze up at him. "What do I want?" he parrots Sam's question back at him, angling his head to the side. It's a familiar gesture, one that he's seen the angel make so many times that it's almost comforting. Almost, but not quite. "I have so little experience with want, Sam, that I hardly know how to answer that question."

Sam licks his dry lips, blinks down at the angel and tries to think of a reasonable response. Decides on rephrasing his question, because he's sure that there's a misunderstanding in there somewhere. Not that he wouldn't like to know what Castiel wants, or if he's capable of anything even resembling desire. "Why did you come here?"

Unblinking eyes stare up at him for long, tense moments, searching for something in Sam's, but he can't imagine what. He fights the urge to squirm, to step away, to run. Then he fights the urge to kneel, to lower his head in supplication because he thinks he could worship this creature, if he were allowed.

"He has come to you." It's not a question and there's no doubting the meaning behind the words.

"How-" Sam flinches, stutters, heart thudding double-time. "How did you know?"

The angel glances away towards the shadows. "It was only a matter of time," he tells Sam, strides over to the window, parts the blinds with his fingers to glance out. "You are Lucifer's vessel. He will not rest until he finds you. He will pursue you unmercifully and he will impel you to accept him."

Swallowing back the strong urge to be sick, Sam gives his head a jerky shake, tries to clear the muddle of his rapid-fire thoughts. "No," he says, wants to deny it. "It…that won't ever happen. I won't say 'yes' to him. Never."

The angel turns back to him, his eyes wide and bright even in the dark of the room. "You will."

"No!" Sam shouts back, fists clenching. "I'll fight him!"

Those eyes almost look sincerely sad for a moment, while they watch him struggling, shaking furiously. "You cannot succeed on your own, Sam. You're weak."

His pulse keeps thrumming in his ears, uneven beats and hot blood pressing at his temples. He'd like to put a fist through the wall, but thinks instead of striding the few feet across the room and socking the angel instead. It would probably break his hand, but it would be satisfying just the same. And the pain, the sweet pain, might distract him for a few minutes.

"Go back to Dean, Sam," the angel suggests, twists his body back around. "You can help each other."

A near hysterical huff escapes him, something perversely resembling a laugh. "Do you honestly think there's any help for either one of us?" he hears himself ask, but he's detached from it. "I'm the devil's vessel. The fucking _devil_."

At this point he's faintly aware that he begins babbling, nonsense words tumbling out of him. Maybe, just maybe, if he goes mad, the devil won't have his way with him. He'll be too much of a mess to say 'yes' or anything cognizant. The only word that he keeps coming back to, the only one that makes it through the haze of blinding panic is ' _please_ '. Repetitive blatherings of "pleasepleaseplease" over and over and over again.

And then he's on his back, flat on the mattress, blinking up at a scowling angel. There's a fist gripping his hair tightly, a shade of pain tugging at the corners of his eyes. "Get a hold of yourself," the angel grumbles, his eyes flickering up and down disdainfully. "You're better than this."

There's a huff of manic laughter threatening to bubble up in his chest, but he swallows it back, doesn't think the angel will appreciate the humor of his statement. "You will do as I say," the angel says, leaning in so close his breath is hot against Sam's chin.

His eyes narrow defiantly up at the bossy, handsy angel holding all two hundred plus pounds of him to a mattress without so much as a flicker of difficulty. "And if I don't?"

"I can persuade you, if you think that's necessary," the angel tells him darkly. "But, I warn you, it might be very unpleasant for you."

"Gonna slap me around, Cas?" Sam asks, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips.

That head tilts, just a shade and it's the only warning he gets before the grip on him tightens and he's tossed across the room, the jarring impact into the wall clacking his teeth down on his lip. All air is expelled from his lungs before he even lands. He has no time to stand before he's being seized around the neck and pressed into the carpet.

"I will do what I must," he is told. "If 'slapping you around' is the best method to get you to comply, then so be it."

The other hand is back in his long hair, grasping it and there's the intoxicating taste of blood on his lips. He could get drunk on the coppery, familiar tang. Could drown in it. "Do it," he dares the angel. "Don't be gentle."

The angel leans closer, his lips brushing tantalizingly against Sam's, "I know what you want from me, Sam. Your mind cries out for punishment." The fingers in his hair tighten. "Shall I give you what you're asking for? Or would denying you be a better strategy?"

Something on the angel's breath tastes like a nine-volt battery and dark red wine. It washes away the memory flavor of blood and Sam sucks it in with a gasp, arching up until his bare chest brushes the coarse lapels of the angel's trench coat, dragging shivers of sensation throughout his entire frame.

"You want something from me," he pants out, reorganizing the jumble of thoughts in his half-mad mind. "I want something from you. Fair's fair."

The darkness of the room shades the angel's eyes, but Sam can make out the flicker of a blink, slow and languorous, calculated in a way that tells him he knows the affect he has on Sam. "Very well then."

 _  
**I don't know how to let you go  
Or if I should keep you  
I don't know how to let you know  
I really do have a reason**   
_

**I'd like to grab you by the hair  
and drag you to the devil**

 **Hang You From the Heavens- The Dead Weather**

Real anger simmers through his grace, a wrath like he has never before felt. It is as much from being placed in this position as it is from seeing the man beneath him so demeaned by his own guilt. And he finds that he _wants_ to meet out punishment, unleash all of his fury because he is not sure that the meager frame of his vessel can withstand it any longer.

He rises from his crouch, but does not release his hold on Sam's hair. In fact he twists it tighter in his fist, enough that he feels a few strands snap free at the root. There's a grunt of discomfort as he hoists the man into a kneeling position, moves around that supplicant form and bends at the waist to speak harshly against an ear.

"Did I not warn you where the path of using your demon powers would lead you, Sam?" he asks. His human voice is gritty and strained, a mere shadow of the resonance his true voice would hold. "I had faith that you would heed my advice. I trusted that you would find the path of righteousness. And _you made a fool of me_."

Sam's neck arches, the tendons straining under fine layers of smooth skin. The man's all frayed edges of want and a blunt center of need. And the thing that makes him cherish this moment is the knowledge that he holds in his hands the one thing that truly belongs to Dean. His fingers curve around the skull and he has conflicting urges to cradle and to crush this once-precious being.

"I should make you beg for my forgiveness," he grumbles, but he doesn't mean it. He hasn't the pride to withstand any words of contrition meant for his benefit.

"Please-"

"Don't." He crouches down, his knee brushing against Sam's waist and the fingers of his free hand curling around a firm, bare bicep. These touches create an odd reaction in the man, a schism between that honey-gold soul and the brackish demon taint that was coiled so tightly around it.

There is no disconnect between a human's soul and their body. Everything the body feels is absorbed by the soul. He finds this curious; the way his fingertips rubbing through strands of feather-soft hair, against the roughness of scalp, can send sensations to the glowing core of this man. Angels inhabiting a vessel are not the same, perhaps because the human form is not a natural receptacle for their grace.

He wishes to experience touch the way humans do. Tethering his grace more firmly to his vessel will make him more vulnerable, but not here, not at this moment, with this man. He thinks he can do it, that he _will_.

His line to Heaven has been cut off, but he used to see this world, the universe, all of its atoms and molecules in stark reality. That surety is gone now. And all he's left with is this blur of questionable morality, driven hazy by the pheromones and electrical impulses that drive his vessel and those around him.

He releases Sam suddenly, so suddenly that he wavers on his knees, nearly tumbles to his hands. That smooth line of skin and hair sways back, seeking to reconnect, but he leans away.

"Get on the bed."

 _  
**In some strange way it's like you're never there  
You just float by, crawling in the air  
I've been so tired  
I can barely breathe  
Open your eyes once and try to see**   
_

**So don't say you'll see me**

 **Stab City: As Tall As Lions**

He's scrabbling. He's a scrabbling, crawling, gasping _thing_ in his haste. The carpet fibers rasp his palms and burn his knees, the worn bedspread crumples in his fists and Sam is pulling, dragging himself onto the bed, still damp from his dream-sweat. He slides and fumbles because he's desperate and pathetically excited, his cock hard and heavy between his thighs. He hasn't been this hard since the first time he took Ruby, because this is shame.

Eyes are on him, a cool gaze that shimmies down his spine like ice chips. The angel's a heavy presence behind him, standing, watching, witnessing. And this is Castiel's existence; watching. Always watching. Sam just trembles on his hands and knees, waiting for him to _do_. Something. Anything.

It's minutes that feel like eons, before he hears anything but the ratcheting thump of his heart. If he could only breathe, Sam thinks it might calm. And though there is not a whisper of sound from the angel, he's a pulsing, heavy presence that fills the room. The fine hairs on Sam's arms and legs rise in the electric current of him. A wash of soft wind skims his back and Castiel appears beside him, crossing the room in one of those untraceable movements. Sam's mouth falls open on a pant and his head swims when his hazy peripheral vision is filled with a wavering shape of black and tan.

"What-" He's interrupted by a palm falling into the small of his back. His hands and knees go out from under him and his breath rushes out under the force of his fall. That slender, fine-boned hand stays and he's pinned, absolutely pinned under the weight of it.

"Don't speak."

Sam bites his lip so hard he bleeds. The blankets are wadded up, an uncomfortable mass of cloth beneath his breastbone. Discomfort battles with the feel of cool skin against his flushed back, palm and finger pads impossibly smooth, like they've never known a hard day's work. But heavy, so hard and immovable over him.

"You're a powerful beast, Sam Winchester," Castiel intones from above him. The force of the hold relents and that hand is dragged up and over him, sliding over the peaks of his jutted shoulder blades. The breath he sucks between clenched teeth is a cool air on his tongue and it tastes of dark spice. "But so breakable," the angel continues and the grip squeezes so tight Sam swears he can hear his bones creak. It's all he can do not to cry out.

The pain is too brief, after he's been craving it for so long, and he sobs when the hand is removed. But then the sound of shifting fabric fills his ears and in one fluid movement, the angel is on the bed with him, straddling his lower back. A hand slides beneath his chin and he's jerked up harshly, back bowing and every muscle screams in protest. "Ah!" he cries out, fumbles his hands against the bed to take some of his weight, but it alleviates nothing. Sinew and tendons pull taut under his skin and it bleeds a blissful ache throughout his body.

The voice is right at his ear again when the angel speaks. Sam can barely hear him over his raw gasping. "I have watched humans break many beasts more stubborn than you, Sam. You don't even struggle. You don't protest. You must know that you deserve this."

He's released so suddenly that he face-plants against the mattress, shaking and gasping and already missing the too-tight grip that held him. If he had permission to speak, he'd beg. Instead he twists the loose sheets in his hands and waits in desperate anticipation as Castiel glides gentle, calming touches down his shoulders and back. The tenderness of the touch is awful and gut-twisting. It's something too much like comfort and Sam doesn't want it, because he's wrong. He's _filth_.

Fingers tangle in his sweaty hair once more and Castiel leans in, nuzzles behind his ear and says, like the freaky mind-reader he is, "You can beg now. If you like."

 

 _  
**I can still feel it when you lie  
Pick a rose just to hide my face  
Well, if there's something I should know  
I seek the science where there is no shape  
Under a molten sky, let the days collide  
Well, I made you and now I take you back**   
_

**The Scale- Interpol**

If he doesn't make efforts to suppress his grace, there is a very real possibility that he will shatter Sam Winchester. For the first time, he is examining Sam's physical form spread out beneath him. His flesh is beautiful in all of its craven lust, swells of skin and muscle, shining in perspiration. And large. So very large. There are few things in God's creation as breathtaking as the human construct. Every detail, down to the marrow, lovely in its brilliant complexity. Laid out before him, Sam is one of the finest examples of his father's handiwork.

Castiel rarely looks upon humans with any recognition of their pure physicality. This is, perhaps, a sin. But he is too often distracted by the soft glow of the souls housed within. This is how he sees them. Sam's soul is golden soft, though strangled by the ugly curl of the demonic essence that pollutes him.

When he lays his vessel's hands softly upon the man's skin, his soul dims and roils. When he grips the man tight, crescent nails biting hard, his soul pulses and expands. This is why he feels compelled to offer penance in pain. There is no desire for kindness.

"Please," Sam whispers against the sheets, hushed and raspy. "please, castiel, please, i need it- you to— make it hurt," tiny words babbled in a rush.

It occurs to him that he hasn't a clue about how to proceed. He has witnessed humans in these tableaus. There should be bonds and whips and other miscellaneous accoutrements of a sexual sado-masochistic nature. He has none of these at his disposal. It's just as well, as he finds the thought of wielding a weapon against a Winchester horribly distasteful.

He speaks his words against the curving shell of Sam's ear, "I've no tools but the meat of this vessel. But I can hurt you in a million little ways with just the press of my thumb. Will that be sufficient, Sam?"

"Yes!" Sam cries and bucks beneath him.

Fitting his hand around the back of Sam's neck, he presses down, squeezes his knees around the slim hips he straddles. "Be still."

Rising up on his knees, away from the prostrate form that's as still as can be, he shrugs off his coats, unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and gathers his grace tight and compact. He stores it in the cavern of his vessel's heart, in the empty space recently vacated by Jimmy Novak's soul. And though his true form still presses at the edges of its prison, when he again lays his palm in the slick curve of spine bowed out before him, a sensation flows up the line of his arm. It slides down his side, pools in his belly and tightens his testicles. It feels…..

Oh. He _feels_.

 _  
**All this running around, well it's getting me down  
Just give me a pain that I'm used to  
I don't need to believe all the dreams you conceive  
You just need to achieve something that rings true**   
_

**A Pain That I'm Used To: Depeche Mode**

The hand that holds him, it's so soft and firm. It burns vicious fire along his neck and it hasn't even squeezed yet. It simply holds, immobilizes and then _presses_ just so, until his head is wrenched up and his throat swallows hard against the mattress.

Sam's next breath is a jag of wretched emotion, catching hard and heavy in his chest, somewhere behind his heart. Somewhere deep inside. The angel gives a hum of approval and Sam would love to know what he did to earn it, would do it a thousand times over to hear sounds like that again.

The angel is shifting behind him, on top of him, doing something with his other hand that Sam can't see. The anticipation of what is nearly killing him, but then he hears the soft swish of leather sliding against fabric and he _knows_. "We'll make do with what we have, yes?" Castiel asks. It's a rhetorical question, of course, but Sam tries to nod. Can't quite make the movement with his neck and head so tautly held.

And when the hold releases him, he whines an aborted protest. Already he's missing the pressure, the too-tight pull along his tendons, but he hasn't long before his wrists are gripped tightly and his arms yanked behind him. They're pinioned together roughly and the leather of the angel's belt wrapping them is a sigh and a pinch.

This tug and squeeze is something Sam's known, wrists bound behind his back, shoulders drawn and muscles crying out. It's a pain that settles over him like an old friend, familiar and welcoming. "Thank you," he sighs, without meaning to. "Thank you." He pulls just a bit, tests the strength of the binding, an automatic response that his body remembers even though he has no desire to be freed.

The smack to the back of his head is a surprise that he blinks at, lashes fluttering against the crisp sheets. It doesn't hurt. It's a chastisement, the kind you might deliver to a misbehaving child. "Stop that."

"Sorry. Sorry," Sam babbles unthinkingly. "Please don't stop. Please."

"You needn't worry about that," the angel responds, pushing his hands between Sam and the mattress, palms sliding up, undeterred by the heavy press of Sam's weight. Sam shivers, lets loose a moan that's deep and comes from some low place he doesn't understand. The angel's palms are dry, silky smooth over his abs and pecs, where he stops and pinches Sam's nipples. Hard. "You're mine now."

Sam arches up, the twisting sensation washing down his front, closing his throat over the whine that wants to push its way through.

Castiel releases him and he thumps back down on the bed, shaking and gasping, throat dry and raw. The weight on his lower back shifts a little, pushing Sam's pelvis into the mattress. His cock is still hard, ridiculously so. And even though this isn't supposed to be about sex, Sam suddenly, desperately wants it. "Fuck, Cas. Fuck."

The angel hums again, his breath stirring the hairs at the base of Sam's neck. "Perhaps," he answers while his hands skim further up. "For now," fingertips caress along his collarbone. "Tell me when it hurts."

 _  
**I'm just an effigy to be disgraced.  
To be defaced.  
Your need for me has been replaced.  
And if I can't have everything well then just give me a taste**   
_

**Sin- Nine Inch Nails**

He hooks the tips of his fingers into the man's clavicles, exerts what is, to him, the barest pressure. When Sam groans and arches further into his touch, the contact between them burns along the vessel's skin. He squeezes tighter into the tender spot over bone that has no cushion of flesh, lets his blunt nails cut in just deep enough to well slight drops of blood that he can smell. It's a tangy scent with just the faintest hint of sulfur. Castiel would never admit it to anyone, but he's always rather liked the smell of sulfur. It's dark and filthy, so much the opposite of everything he's known and tantalizing because of it.

He's indulged in four of his five senses now, all but one. Why should he not experience the last? He's curious. And he's enjoyed all the others; the sounds Sam's making, the sight of him, so open and broken, the rich, meaty scent of his blood, the feel of his corded body, laid out for him. As he leans further in, consciously huffing hot breath against the skin of Sam's neck, he can feel the knot of bound hands pressing against his abdomen and he crushes himself closer.

"Castiel. Castiel," the chant falls like a prayer from the hunter's lips, soft and inviting. Sweat beading along the line of neck beneath him, glistening, shining. He presses the flat of his tongue against the skin, swiping a slow, self-indulgent lick up to the hairline. He contemplates the taste, closes his lips and rubs them back and forth across the knob of bone at the crest of Sam's spine.

"Please, Castiel." Sam's body is bowed now, craning up to gain more touch. He moves one hand to curl around Sam's throat, just a hint of pressure as he has no desire to truly choke the human, knows that if he isn't careful he could easily crush the windpipe beneath his palm. He feels a convulsive swallow and a trembling of awareness from the man that he has in his hands.

Dragging his other hand up in a swift, possessive arc, he lets his fingers lace into the damp strands of hair before giving them another firm yank. His mouth opens again, tongue swiping out again to taste and then sets his teeth into flesh. It gives so easily, blood rushing up when he applies suction. He's rewarded with a keening whine; half pleasure, half pain. The muscles stretched beneath him roiling and convulsing.

When he pulls back, he can see that white ring and red bruise he's left behind. His mark, just as surely as the handprint brand he left upon another. A surge of sensation curls low in his belly as he inspects the damp, shining bite. "I shouldn't desire these things," he mutters in wonder when he registers the swollen, heaviness of his vessel's sex between its thighs.

"Please don't sto-" Sam begins, but a slight squeeze of his hand chokes the words back.

"I've no intention stopping, Sam." He drags his teeth in a scraping nip at the back of the hunter's neck. "When I'm done, I'll have left marks enough that Lucifer will know I have made his vessel mine."

 _  
**He came riding fast like a phoenix out of fire flames  
He came dressed in black with a cross bearing my name  
He came bathed in light and splendored glory  
I can't believe what the Lord has finally sent me**   
_

**The Dancer- PJ Harvey**

Teeth cut into his skin, one bite after another, the angel making a meal of his neck and shoulders as that iron grip tightens so hard on the base of his skull. A humming whine fills his ears, but it's long moments of the stilted song before Sam realizes the sound is rising up from his own throat. His body's on fire with sensation, every bit of him straining up to the pressure at his back. He can't even feel the bed beneath him, so desperate for the clawing, biting, sucking that the nerve-endings in his nipples strain back through his meat in a needy craving to be pinched again.

The angel's other hand comes up, fingertips gliding softly over the bite marks, smoothing the cooling spit further out. The grip on his neck loosens and slides down, scraping nails stinging over the pulsing hot welts. Sam feels small and large all at once, like something inside him is bursting at the seams of his body, but being tamped down by the smothering presence caged over him.

Hands skim up over shoulders, grip the tensed muscles of his biceps and tug down. White-hot pain zigzags over the maze of tendons, a protesting scream against the unnatural angle of his bound wrists. Somehow, he manages to restrain the urge to shout, chokes it down inside of him and squirms at the sudden urge to vomit it out. And as the angel continues to drag palms and fingers all the way down, the burning sting whispers to Sam, sighs gentling words to the too-fast beat of his heart and a soft farewell when the pull is drawn away.

A sob wrenches its way free from Sam's chest, smearing with spit and blood on the sheets beneath his face, soaking into the sweat and tears like the final ingredient of some arcane potion.

"Can I tell you something, Sam, if you promise not to tell another soul?" Castiel questions, and when that voice breaks through the miasma of juddering pain-shocks, Sam manages a stilted nod. His body is trembling so terribly that he's not sure he'll hear the angel over the vibration of his rattling teeth. He clenches his teeth tight, presses his tongue hard against the wall of them and focuses.

Castiel raises up on his knees, trails his fingertips in a soothing line against the tight squeeze of leather around Sam's wrists. The vague sting helps his thoughts to clear and his breathing to even out. "Jimmy Novak was made for me, made to contain me."

Slowly, Castiel works open the belt that is binding him. "He is perfect for me."

There's a tighter shift when the angel pulls the leather strap to release the prong. "But I understand the appeal of a vessel such as you."

When the belt falls open, blood rushes painfully back to Sam's fingers and he chokes on a whimper. "The power your body holds is magnificent."

Castiel raises his limp arms up over his head, thumbs massaging the pulse at his wrists. "I don’t desire power."

The leather gets wrapped, tighter this time, around his crossed forearms. "But I would very much like to be inside of you."

 _  
**Now it's numb in my head, when I think about your trek  
Can I feel your fiery breath?  
I've been cold so I go throw my flesh to your coals  
When did you go?  
I'm all alone. I see my bones. Welcome me to your home.**   
_

**Stay down. Well, I bet it burns now.**

 **Midnight Land- empires**

Always he thinks of his vessel as a tool, the armor he wears into battle. He is disappointed in its limitations and weaknesses. He is impressed by its resiliency and persistence. Though the shell no longer houses a mortal soul, it remains human. Only Castiel's will represses the urges of the animal flesh he wears. Were he to allow it, the vessel would crave as it has always craved; food, water, movement, sex and a million other visceral instincts driven by its chemical nature.

Though Jimmy Novak has been extinguished, Castiel does not think of these bones and tissue as his own. It is "the vessel", his sword that carries arms and legs, muscles and sinews, blood and organs. His to control and yet never truly _his_. He was given permission to enter this body by its owner and make use of it how he sees fit.

Had he never been placed in the position he is now in, Castiel would most likely have continued to view his vessel in this manner, as simply a means to an end. But he has looked upon the man beneath him and seen him as something more than a vessel. Sam Winchester, bound and prostrate, the lines of his tense shoulders, the sweat-glistened hollow of his bowed spine, rises and falls of skin. How can he look upon such a thing and not see the awesome beauty of it?

And there the hands of his vessel lay, pressed and clawing into the map below. The fingers are delicate and graceful, overlaid with soft, thin skin and dotted with fine hairs. Castiel releases their hold and raises them for further inspection, the murmur of Sam's soft sigh singing a song of relief. He allows himself this small distraction from his task and looks, truly _sees_ the instrument of his cause for the first time since he filled it with his angelic presence.

He curls and flexes the fingers, twists his fists on slender wrists that ripple the wiry muscles of his forearms. The rolled cuffs of the crisp white shirt he wears impede further inspection.

His inaction is making Sam squirm beneath him. The man twists his head at an awkward angle and peers up. "Castiel?"

"Be silent," he commands, using his intriguing hands to drag off the tie around his neck. They are _his_ , aren’t they? With no soul remaining to lay claim, these hands, they belong to him now.

The line of buttons down the front of the shirt are small, hard circles of plastic that will require some finesse to unhook. Normally, he would tear them away without regard and repair them with his grace when necessary, but he feels no particular need to rush his exploration. And the slim fingers on his hands appear very capable. He uses them to release the first button without much difficulty. It is simply a matter of memorizing the necessary motion. The next opens easier and the next until each one has slipped free and the shirt hangs open around his torso.

He is slender here as well. Until this moment, he has had only a detached concept of how different each human body is. Staring down at the slim lines of his chest, the small, pink nipples overlaid on pale skin that would brown easily with just the slightest bit of sun. It doesn't compare to Sam's body in any way, but is lovely in a wholly different way. He is ashamed of himself. He is as guilty as his brothers of taking these humans for granted.

A simple roll of his shoulders has the shirt falling away. The slight rustle of the fabric makes Sam squirm beneath the spread of his thighs. He focuses then, everything he has on that warm press of flesh. The sensation is appealing, it radiates up toward his groin, and he's surprised when his erection twitches in response. He'd like to examine this as well.

When he crawls away and stands at the foot of the bed, Sam whimpers but doesn't question him. He's never had occasion to remove his clothing before now, but it's an easy task. It's one of those strange things that his body remembers how to do. He kicks off his shoes, releases the button and zip of his slacks and shimmies out of them. Strangely, the most difficult items to remove are the socks on his feet. It's a balancing act that he finds irritatingly clumsy.

The simple, white underwear he peels away like a second skin and then he can see the swelling jut of his penis. Naturally, he's observed humans in all manner of undress, but seeing and experiencing are two separate things entirely. This part of his body is the greatest evidence of humankind's animality. All his senses narrow down to this basic driving force. It aches in a cloyingly sweet way, a hungry, heavy weight at the center of everything else.

"Sam?" he queries, crawling back onto the bed, feeling each stretch and pull in every muscle, savoring the skim of Sam's bristly legs against his own. "Do you find my body attractive?"

He cages Sam's prone form between his knees, flattens his palms on either side. Each movement and action he makes seems to be intensifying that ache between his legs.

"Um…I can't see you," Sam admits.

"But you desire sex with this body, yes? I can smell your arousal. I know you're hard and aching."

"I don't know, Cas," he answers, sounding confused and just a little bit irritated. "I've never been into a guy before, but I guess, yeah, you're pretty good-looking."

"If it's not this body you crave, then why do you want this? I could easily give you pain without making this something sexual."

Sam's body twists and ripples on the bed, he tugs against the bindings again and huffs a breath of annoyance. He still can't understand why Sam should be uncomfortable with talking about these things, but so responsive to the act itself.

"I want _you_ , Cas. The fact that you're pretty, well, I guess that just makes it easier."

He has conflicted emotions about this response. The implication that it is his own, true essence that attracts the hunter fills him with a sinful pride. But he is also disappointed at the insinuation that a less appealing vessel might have prohibited the sensual nature of their interaction. He appeases himself with the knowledge that humans are, in a lot of ways, shallow creatures. They cannot see things as angels can. It is fortuitous for him that his vessel is physically beautiful.

"Well, then," he says in Sam's ear, hooks his fingers into the waist of Sam's shorts and pulls. "Are you ready for me?"

 _  
**Darling, there are no taboos in lust.  
My veins coarse blood that's so venomous.  
When the heartless hears a heartbeat...  
he's jealous, so jealous**   
_

**I don't need a reason baby, put your arms around me.  
Hold me real close, clap me in irons,  
C'mon Caligulove me.**

 **Caligulove- Them Crooked Vultures**

Blunt nails catch and tickle his skin as fingers curve around the elastic at his hips. Sam already feels so naked and torn wide-open, feels the heavy weight of the angel's gaze on him. More than six feet of muscle and bone hugely splayed out on the bed, but he suddenly feels so small.

The nails scratch and drag, a sensation that has goosebumps bursting up in their wake, as his shorts are pulled slowly down his hips. They catch on the jut of his hard cock, a stinging slap of full flesh against his belly, but not quite as intense as the shameful clench of muscles as he's bared completely.

He's breathing in ragged little gasps, fingers flexing and opening, seeking something to grip and finding no purchase. The brush of fabric down his legs, hooked for a moment on his ankles before being yanked away and shed completely. There's only one brief moment of nothing, just the whispery sighs of his harsh breathing and no more. It's just a feeling, a weight on his back, of long staring that slides under his skin and heats his blood to boiling.

And finally, when it starts to feel like too much, that metaphysical weight is lifted and replaced with a sliding press of bristly skin. Curling fingers wrap around his shoulders, glide up the length of his raised arms as the angel lowers himself in a hot line against Sam's back. They're pressed flush together and he can feel every inch of the angel's stolen flesh. He bites his lips hard enough to break the skin, tastes blood and focuses on the contrasting sensations of a hard cock and soft sac aligned between the cheeks of his ass.

Castiel's hands find his, fingers laced together and nose nudged in behind Sam's ear. "I would be gentle if you asked, Sam," the angel offers, cool words and hot breath spoken into the sweat-tacky skin of his neck.

His eyes squeeze so tightly shut that a trickle of moisture seeps from the corners, hot tears streaking down his face and onto the sheets below. He feels too full and so empty all at once, brimming over with emotions that he has no way to interpret. He wants to say, "yes", "please", let those hands and lips soothe away all the burning, ugly taint that prickles in the cells of his monstrous body. But he's a Winchester, ingrained with the urge to punish all things unnatural, even if the monster in the dark festers in his own flesh.

"Don't," Sam grunts, makes a keening noise like a whine as he shifts and pushes up against Castiel's weight. "Don't be nice to me. I don't deserve it."

There's a beat of silence from the angel, strung out taut enough to snap. "No," Castiel finally answers, teeth catching and nipping the shell of Sam's ear. His body jerks and shudders. "I don't suppose you do. I wish it weren't so."

Castiel's fingers unlace from Sam's, one hand splaying over the knot of his over-lapping wrists, pushing them into the mattress until the bones grind together and pinch the fine skin. Sam flushes and gasps at the sting. The weight leaves his back and his thighs are kneed roughly apart, leaving him shamefully open and splayed. There's no time to adjust to this new position before he's breached, a harsh, dry push inside that punches out a cry of desperate hurt from somewhere deep and uncharted.

The angel makes a low purring noise against the line of Sam's exposed neck, sets another sharp cut of teeth into flesh. Sam burns and clenches as that blunt intrusion shifts and spreads within. He groans with nervous fear at the realization that it's only fingers stretching him open so far. He feels impossibly full now, stinging so deeply that it flushes him head to toe. "Are you quite sure you don't want me to be gentle?" Castiel whispers husky-low.

Sam is sure of just one thing right now. He wants this done, the anticipation is going to kill him, bring his heart to a stuttering stop. " _Yesssss_ ," he slurs wetly against the dry catch of bedding. "Just fuck me, Cas. Please just do it."

That pressure inside shifts again, scissors open, twisting and dragging, a hot catch of friction in that untouched place. Sam gets momentarily distracted from the new sensation when the too-blunt edges of the angel's fingernails slice into his right wrist. The next words are nearly drowned out by the Sam's hiss of indrawn breath.

"As you wish."

 

 _  
**Like the sacred song that someone sings through you  
Like the flesh so warm that the thorn sticks into  
Like the dream you know one day will come to life  
Try to hold on just a little longer, stronger  
It's the jewel of victory  
The chasm of misery  
And once you have bitten the core  
You will always know the flavor**   
_

**The Real Thing- Faith No More**

Never has he felt such an all-consuming heat as the one he feels in this moment. He has looked upon the host of Heaven, armies of his brethren in their true forms, oceans of pure, electric energy. But _this_. This desert-hot sizzle of pumping blood and animal impulse blankets and suffocates him. His vessel cannot seem to get enough oxygen, though he pulls breaths in, long and deep. The skin is too tight, constrictive and strangling the dimming pulse of his angelic force. His grace is a shrunken and battered thing, buried beneath the drumming walls of his human heart.

His estimation of the human condition has risen to dizzying heights, stifled and consumed as he is by the base cravings of his flesh. He sees now why humans are so favored by God, why Anna envied and fell as she did, why Dean shouts and spits his vain superiority. There is no tool in an angel's arsenal as powerful as the blindly driving force of human need. They are, truly, something _more_.

Castiel gives himself over entirely to his body, hands over the reins and almost observes passively while his fingers drive and stretch the tight inner muscles of Sam's grasping hole. The angled rise of his throbbing flesh twitches in anticipation, the desire to slake this overwhelming thirst, blood singing an ugly, monotonous staccato of _fuckfuckfuck_.

When he removes his fingers and replaces them with his leaking tip, Castiel knows he is being rougher than he should. His hips jerk forward suddenly on their own accord and he feels swallowed up. A tight squeeze, a grunting protest at the intrusion, a jarring shudder from the body beneath him has him sliding deeper, all the way in until he's completely consumed, pelvis flush to ass and chest laid against back. It's all so close, so real and immediate.

His forehead presses into the cradle of Sam's arched neck, eyes fallen shut, his sense of sight forsaken for touch and touch alone. With a slow rising motion, he pulls back, dry friction and clenching muscle, holding him, sheathing him so wonderfully that he slams back in without finesse or regard.

His everything narrows down to the pumping of his hips, the catch of skin on skin. The grunts and groans from the man beneath him are a distant chorus, stilted and pained 'oofs' and 'ahs'. He snaps forward, sheathed completely, drags himself out in deep, short jerks. He's conflicted with the urges to draw this painful pleasure out forever and to come right-fucking-now. It's a shameful need to take and take and take until there's just no more for Sam to give.

It's too much and not enough, but when he feels his testicles drawing in, the imminent approach of orgasm has him suddenly more aware than he's been since Sam begged to be fucked. All of that unexpected affection he feels for this sad, broken creature has Castiel reasserting himself, overcoming the driven nature of his body.

He's clumsier than he can ever remember being when he hoists Sam to his knees, drags his lower body into his still-thrusting lap and fumbles for a grasp around Sam's hard length. His fingers barely manage to circle the base and make one slow pull before Sam shouts a hoarse cry and comes in a long, slick mess across the sheets. The fluttering clench around him has Castiel thrusting so hard and deep that he worries vaguely about fractured bones. But the worry slips away, along with every other thought, as he coils tight and orgasm hits him like a solid punch.

Everything falls away, consumed by a velvety blackness and the rushing tide of release. There's this indefinable _something_ that pours out of him, melts away in this relieving torrent that leaves him trembling and incredibly, incredibly vulnerable.

It slips away in jarring snatches, his limbs coming back to life, his senses slowly reawakening. He can taste copper and salt on his tongue, hear these hiccupping little inhalations. The scent of sex is heavy on the air and Sam's shivery body is making his own twitch with sensation overload. Castiel opens his eyes, finds he's mouthing absently at an open bite mark on the back of Sam's neck that he doesn't remember making.

Gently, he pulls out of Sam's abused body, reaches up and removes the restraints from Sam's arms. The man remains quiet, face pressed into the bed. When he rolls Sam onto his back, Castiel feels a wave of tenderness assault him, urging him to lean down and kiss the salty tear tracks away.

"Shhhh, Sam," he soothes in a blur of nonsense mutterings. He moves his lips over Sam's cheeks, licking up the tacky tearstains.

Castiel lowers his body back over Sam's, laying half on the man's still trembling body and half on the come-spattered bed. His arm drapes over and curves up to palm the side Sam's head, his face pressed close to the other ear. "Can we forgive each other now?" he asks, voice whisper-quiet.  
Sam's chest hitches beneath his arm. "Yes. Please."

Castiel tightens his hold and nuzzles in closer, breaths in and sighs out. "Good. Yes, that's good, Sam."

And they stay like that until Sam's breath evens out and he drifts back to sleep. In fact, they stay like that for long moments _after_ Sam's falls into slumber because Castiel is strangely reluctant to leave. He finally does, when the early dawn light begins seeping in around the curtains.

He casts one last look at his sleeping friend before he goes, satisfied by the quiet ease of the resting soul within. Castiel wills himself away, but knows he's leaving something of himself behind.


End file.
